Welcome the Christmas Dick

On December 28, 2011 by Eden M. Kennedy

I’d woken up feeling shaky and nauseated the day before Christmas. I honestly didn’t think I’d had that much to drink the night before, just some champagne after work. I’d been sober enough to read 15 pages of The Hobbit out loud at bedtime. I’m always aware of the fact that there’s a child in the house and someone needs to be sharp enough to perform the Heimlich Maneuver or a crude tracheotomy. (I keep forgetting about 911. I could actually just go ahead and descend into genteel alcoholism, but I feel like that’s something I want to save for when I’m elderly and frail and have trained a herd of small dogs to make beer runs for me.) But I’ve had this cold for weeks and my defenses are down. An afternoon nap helped, but then the whole sleepless cycle started all over again, fueled by a boy who loses his mind every Christmas Eve.

11:30 p.m.
“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.”
“Hi. I’m awake. What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look at the clock.”
“Can you come snuggle with me? Mom? Mom.”
“No. Go back to bed.”
“But I can’t sleep!”
“Figure it out.”

12:00 a.m.
“Mom. Mom. Mom.”
“Yes. I’m still awake.”
“I still can’t sleep.”
“Well, climb in, then.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you guys.”

12:30 a.m.
“Mom.”

Sometimes there’s no point in requiring him to be grown-up and independent. My God, he’s only ten, why shouldn’t I get into his bed to talk about video games, or death, or Yoda, or whatever it is we talk about on Christmas Eve? (We talked about 30 Rock and girls. And death.)

“I’m going to get you guys up at five o’clock so we can open presents!”
“No, you are not.”
“Yes, I am! Five o’clock!”
“Dude, don’t even think of opening that door until there’s a six on the clock.”
“Okay, I’ll get you up at 5:06.”
“Goddamnit, that’s not what I meant. I mean when the first number on the clock is a six.”
“Five thirty, then?”
“SIX.”

He let us sleep in until 6:30. We’d taught him to use the espresso machine the night before, and he was under strict instructions not to wake us up until he’d made a double espresso with two sugars and an almond-milk cappuccino. And God love him, he did it.

But Christmas morning I felt like Death. No, wait — how could I feel like Death? Death is sharp-eyed and clear-minded and gets more than five hours of sleep a night. I had turned into something much worse.

I had turned into The Christmas Dick.

When people ask The Christmas Dick what she wants for Christmas she thinks, “Nothing?” and then spent 20 minutes on Amazon looking at colored tights and mid-range watches. She’s polite enough to throw some stuff onto her wishlist that she sort of wants, but she’s too conflicted about the meaning of it all to remember that people want to buy her something nice because it makes them feel good to do it. She gives with love but she’s not nearly brave enough to want nothing at all.

So when The Christmas Dick gets what she asked for and finds that she really didn’t want it at all, whose fault is it?

A. It is the fault of The Dick, clearly
B. It is her husband’s fault, because everything is
C. Jesus started this whole mess, I’m sure it’s in the Bible somewhere
D. All of the above

The correct answer is B: it’s her husband’s fault! And then after some breakfast and a nap, the answer changed to A: Her own damn fault. And then the next day when her husband told her to exchange the watch for one that suited her more, the answer changed to C: Jesus, the Bible, WalMart, Amazon, the English (because of their cultish love for King Wenceslaus), and the Germans (because of the tannenbaums).

Luckily, since the replacement watch will qualify as an early birthday present, The Birthday Dick is no doubt hiding right around the corner! To be closely followed by The Valentine’s Day Bitch and The Easter Cunt.

Comments

comments

25 Responses to “Welcome the Christmas Dick”

  • Oh no! I’m a Christmas Dick too! AAAGH

  • Jesus Christ. Thank you for this post. It’s the first I’ve laughed since that fucking holiday ended. In fact, it’s the first I’ve laughed since December 22nd.

  • I don’t know what else to say except, I totally get this.

  • I too, am the Christmas dick. My husband also gave me a very nice watch and it’s very pretty. With a fancy ceramic band. That’s just a skosh too small. What I really wanted a new point & shoot digital camera. But I made the mistake of admiring said watch at Dillards over Thanksgiving. The local jeweler doesn’t have any extender clasps that would fit. Fit would not have been an issue with the camera. Just saying.

  • Just saying . . . you’re going to return the watch and get an awesome camera?

    I’m going to assume everyone’s seen this: https://twitter.com/#!/fart (scroll down to the Christmas Day re-tweets).

  • I am not the Christmas Dick, but I am the Day After Christmas Dick. That version involves hating on any and all relatives who were in my house the day before — when I was totally happy and fine — to the point that I whirl myself into a full-on frenzy and crash, face drenched in hot tears, only to sleep for 13 hours and awake in fury that my man has not procured for me, at midnight, the burrito of my dreams…a burrito about which he has absolutely no information nor knowledge. Why does he fail to anticipate my needs? And what the fuck is Baby Jesus’s problem, anyway?

  • Sometimes I want to hug you. But not in a weird way. (Maybe in a weird way. Sometimes I lose track of social norms.) Merry every celebration under the sun.

  • How timely! This was the first year in fifteen that my husband made an effort for me to have a few things to open on Christmas Morning. Nice, right? Behavior that should be rewarded, don’t you think? Nope! In my meager defense, I had asked for one thing, a nice speaker dock for my phone so I can listen to music in my studio, where I’m trying to rediscover my former life as an artist. Instead, I got a bunch of cleaning items. We are innkeepers, so we do do a lot of cleaning, but something about that bottle of Urine Gone! staring at me on Christmas morning tore a little too roughly my ego. I held it in for a day or three, but it came out yesterday (as I reached for the requested item that he was too cheap to get me) and it was ugly. And then I made it worse by defending myself. What kind of an asshole complains about gifts given with genuine good intensions and hope of being liked? A Christmas Dick. This one.

  • I just snorted out loud and then realized that I also was a Christmas Dick. Thankfully my birthday is in May so I have a while until that chapter starts, and wait… people still get shit for Valentines day? I think that I’m going to have to talk to the one who I blame for everything about that one!!

  • No. I called Anne Klein (the company, not Anne herself-I think she threw off the earthly veil awhile ago) and they’re sending additional links at no cost. It’s a pretty watch and he was so put out when I couldn’t start wearing it right away. I’m glad it’s fixable.

    New digital camera is my Xmas present to me.

  • For some reason, Easter Cunt, sounds meanest of them all. Not sure why.

  • This is why I’m so glad that my family has taken gifts out of the equation. We buy stuff for the kids and that’s it. That way you don’t have to drag out your surprised and happy face when something you forgot to take off your wish list five years ago appears under the tree.

  • I thought Christmas Dick was like spotted dick but maybe with cherries?

  • My favourite post of yours *ever.*

  • At least it wasn’t a permanent condition. My dickishness peaked on Sat 12/23 when I tried to bake gingerbread cookies with my kids and my mother in law. I don’t know how to direct a group cooking effort, every fiber of my being wants to drive everyone else out of the kitchen so I am left (triumphant!) alone to get shit done. This didn’t mesh well with helping my kids roll out dough, use cookie cutters and so on. I could not suppress my surly comments. I scorched the first batch, got the second batch out safely and then announced that I was Going For A Walk. My MIL and kids finished baking the cookies without me. My walk was glorious, my inner Cujo really needed it. I was much nicer to be around after that morning. Goodbye Christmas Dick!

  • You are the best. Thank you for another year of tiny windows into how your wonderful mind works. You have given me much joy!

  • I love this. The Veteran’s Day Virago, The Thanksgiving Twat, The Mother’s Day Meanie.

  • the post is awesome especially cuz it’s punctuated by hahaha the Easter Cunt

  • It’s a fabulous word! The Easter Cunt has just blossomed into my favorite holiday icon of all time, thank you! Something about rebirth and resurrection and just trying to get some damn sleep but the fucking Easter Cunt makes you rise again damn it all to hell!

    Perfect.